The Zone

A zone of promise throbs along the horizon where May meets June. Sweet leaf or sap smells: conversations renewed between trees now so graceful in their drapery of green you’d never guess how lately they have taken it from winter storage and have shaken it out and put it on.

A similar illusion persuades me that the park has always been luxuriant and feathery as now. Children have always caromed to and fro. River and sky were always steeped in just this glow. There was never snow.